Another
by SoItGoes19
Summary: Ninth grader John Watson transfers to a new school and is instantly drawn to mysterious student Sherlock Holmes. There's just two problems: a) no one else acknowledges that Sherlock exists b) his classmates keep dying. Based on the anime Another. Teenlock!
1. Chapter 1

**Summary: **

**Ninth grader John Watson transfers to a new school and instantly drawn to mysterious student Sherlock Holmes. There's just one problem: no one else in the class acknowledges that Sherlock even exists. Based on the anime Another. Teenlock AU!**

01 Rough Sketch

_There's an old legend of a boy from the Holmes family. He was everything that a parent could hope for in a child: intelligent, athletic, good-looking; beloved by students and teachers alike. But shortly after he started ninth grade, the boy died. _

_People were devastated._

_That is, until it happened._

_Another boy in the class pointed to the Holmes child's desk and screamed, "There he is! He's not dead! He's right in front of us!" _

_It was just an act, of course, but from that day onward class three behaved as if the boy was still alive. They kept up the facade until graduation, where the principal even arranged an extra seat for the boy in the graduation ceremony. It would have been a good thing. A kind thing. If only the story had ended there… _

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxx

"You poor thing," his grandmother murmured to him as she tucked the scratchy hospital sheets under his chin. "It must be so hard starting in a new place, and now you have your health to worry about too."

"It's alright, grandma." Truth be told, having a collapsed lung was quite painful, but John had grown tired of hospital life long ago. At this point, he would give up his other lung just to be out of this place and talking to someone that wasn't Harry, his grandparents, or a nurse.

He turned to his sister. "Does Dad know?"

"Of course, John," she replied, taking John's hand and stroking it. "I called him as soon as it happened."

John smiled at her, grateful for the comfort. Due to their twelve-year age difference, Harry had always been more like a mother to him than a sibling. She was the only mother he had ever known, since his own had died shortly after birthing him. His father hadn't told him much about her, only her name (Diane) and that she had grown up in his grandparent's hometown of Presteigne.

"Do you want to call him yourself?" his grandmother asked.

"I'm sure he's busy," John said. His father was in India right now, conducting research on some scorpion or butterfly or whatever "it" species it was this year. John looked just like his father; so naturally everyone expected them to be two peas in a pod.

But the only memories that John really had of the man were of him leaving, whether it be dumping him at daycare at the University or leaving him with Harry to go to a conference. He and his father had never been close. At least now they had the distance to use as an excuse.

Harry seemed to pick up on his dark thoughts. "That's the Presteigne River to the north, John, flowing through the center of town," she said, motioning out of the hospital window. "And beyond that is North High School."

John nodded, eager to be distracted. "Which class do you teach in again?"

Harry smirked mischievously. "You'll find out."

Strange. Harry and him had grown apart a little over the past few years since she'd married and moved back to Presteigne to teach. But still, it wasn't like her to keep secrets from him. "It _is_ the same school that you went to, right?"

"Yeah. But that was a long time ago."

"And mom, too," he pressed.

"And mom too," she repeated. John really looked at Harry for the first time in good while. From the few pictures of his mother that John had seen, Harry looked a great deal like her. She and their mother both had the same wide, cherubic features, with long honey colored hair typically worn up in a ponytail. The two women also had kind hazel eyes, although Harry usually wore horn-rimmed glasses that gave hers more of an authoritative stare.

"School at North High is a little different than it was in London," Harry said. "As soon as you get better, I'll teach you everything you need to know."

There was something ominous in his sister's tone made John feel uneasy, as if Harry was hiding something from him. John hurriedly pushed those doubts aside. After all, high school was high school. How different could it be?

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxx

"Oh, you're reading about the nervous system now?" Sarah asked as she fixed him with another IV drip.

"Yeah," John said. The prick hurt a bit, but John barely felt it. Out of all the nurses, Sarah was definitely the nicest, and he enjoyed seeing her. "I want to be a doctor some day."

She grinned genuinely at him, and John felt himself blush. With her plump lips and bright smile, Nurse Sarah was also the prettiest.

"You'd be a great doctor, since you're so kind. I can give you some of my old textbooks if you want."

John grinned back at her. "I'd like that, thanks."

"No problem," Sarah said as she walked toward the door. "Oh. It looks like you have some visitors." John followed her gaze to see three students standing outside in the hallway, two boys and a girl. All of them wore dark blue blazers and red ties, signaling that they went to North High.

"I'll just leave you alone, then?" Sarah said, moving into the hall, but keeping her eyes on John as if she were afraid to leave him alone with the trio.

"We'll be fine," John reassured her.

Immediately after Sarah left, one of the students stepped forward. The boy had a strong face and brown hair that had just a hint of grey to it.

"I'm Greg, and this is Sally and Anderson," Greg said, motioning to a dark-skinned girl with curly black hair and a boy with a rather large nose. "We're all in class 3 at North Presigne."

"John Watson," he introduced himself.

Greg smiled warmly. "It's good to meet you, John. We heard that you were supposed to start in our class last Monday."

John laughed. "Well, that was the plan, anyway."

"Yeah, I figured something came up," Greg deadpanned. He handed John a large manila envelope. "Here's something so that you don't fall too behind.

John opened it and thumbed through to see a stack of papers copied with impeccably neat handwriting.

"It's the class notes from the first week," Greg explained.

"Thanks, Greg," John beamed. School had always came easy to him, but the thought of catching up after spending so much time in the hospital had been making him feel a bit anxious. "I really appreciate it."

"Actually, most people call me Lestrade," the boy offered. John made a mental note. The odd name had a bit of weight to it, an aura of authority. It somehow suited the boy better.

"Consider it a gift from the class. The three of us are officers," he continued. "I'm President, and Anderson is Vice President. Sally is the head of countermeasures."

John scratched his head. "What exactly are countermeasures?"

"You just transferred here right?" Sally asked, brushing aside his question with an air of superiority. It didn't sit right for some reason, like a lingering taste in his mouth of a food that he didn't particularly enjoy.

Anderson stared openly at him, making John feel as if he were a bug under a microscope. "We hear you went to boarding school in London. Why did you transfer here?"

"Family reasons," John answered, not bothering to go into the specifics.

"Have you ever lived in Presteigne before?" Anderson probed.

"Uh, I think I was born here, but I never lived for a long time."

"Did you stay long?" Sally asked. John was taken aback by the open hostility in her voice. She was practically interrogating him. _Why does she care so much? _

"I don't really remember. I was really young, so…maybe? Sorry," he apologized. John could care less about disappointing Sally or Anderson, but Greg seemed like a pretty nice guy. It was clear that the three of them were mistaking him for someone else, but John didn't want to cause the boy any unnecessary heartbreak.

Suddenly a wave of tiredness hit him. He still didn't know who these kids were or why they were so keen on knowing his family history. But at the moment all John wanted was for them to go home so he could take a nap.

"I think I'll be starting school in October, so I'll see you all then," John announced in a not-so-subtle attempt to steer them toward the door.

Sally stepped forward to shake his hand. "It was nice to meet you, John." Her handshake was firm and authoritative. "Are you sure you've never lived in this town?"

"I don't think so," he answered honestly.

"It's just… your handshake feels familiar, somehow. Like we've met before."

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

John through a jacket on top of his flannel pajamas and stepped into the elevator. He dialed his dad's number. _ Harry's been hounding me all day to call him. Hopefully this will get her off my back. Plus it's probably too late for him to actually pick up. _

A soft breath in his ear made him start. "Jesus Christ!" he yelled, jerking forward in fright. "Sorry, I didn't see you there."

Standing behind him was a tall boy dressed in a North High Uniform, with a long blue scarf around his neck instead of the standard tie. His corkscrew curls, pale skin, and delicate features gave him a doll-like appearance, which John found simultaneously off-putting and attractive. However the part that John couldn't staring at were his eyes. One was a brilliant emerald green, with small flecks of gold. The other was covered by a white eye patch.

"Are you a student at North Prestigne?" John asked.

The boy nodded, but otherwise said nothing.

John shivered. He had only known this kid for a total of thirty seconds, but he seemed _different, _somehow. "Do you have something to do on the basement level?"

"Yes," the boy answered in a clipped baritone.

"But the second floor basement is… the morgue."

He smirked almost imperceptibly. "I'm visiting an old friend."

The elevator doors opened and the boy walked slowly toward the dark hallway. John's eyes widened when he saw what that the boy was carrying a riding crop. _What's he doing bringing something like that down to the morgue? _

"Wait!" John called before the boy was enveloped in darkness completely. "Um, I'm John. What's your name?"

A pale face stared back at him, looking eerily like a corpse. "Sherlock Holmes."


	2. Chapter 2

John straightened his tie and tried to push down the first-day-of-school butterflies in his stomach. _Think about what Harry told you, _he reminded himself.

John thought back to when Harry had first described the guidelines to follow for surviving at North High. "The third thing you need to remember for North Presteigne is: always follow the class rules," Harry had said, pushing her glasses from her nose. "School in London might be different, but here the group matters more than the individual."

_Hhm. Maybe that was the wrong thing to think about. _The memory made John feel funny all over again. He was all for being a team-player, but Harry had made the school sound like some sort of Marxist commune.

The assistant homeroom teacher poked her head outside into the hallway and motioned for him to come into the classroom. "Come and introduce yourself, John," Mrs. Brooks said. John blushed and tried not to stare at her for too long. The woman had beautiful long hair, which she wore down and her face was adorned with bright red lipstick.

John took his place at the head of the classroom. Looking outward, John recognized a few familiar faces. Greg, Sally, and Anderson all sat together in the first row. Sherlock on the other hand had the window seat in the corner, and seemed not to make eye contact with anyone.

"Hello. My name is John Watson. I moved here because of my father's job. I'm living with my grandparents and my older sister, and its nice to meet all of you."

The homeroom teacher Mr. Shaeffer nodded in approval. "John, you can take that empty seat, towards the left of the room. I want everyone in the class to help John, and to help each other in class three. Work hard, so you can all graduate in good health at the end of the year."

_Good health? _John had heard a lot of beginning-of-school speeches, but none of them had ever mentioned wellbeing before. Mr. Schaeffer almost made it sound like there was something _threatening _the students.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxx

"The haiku is one of the oldest forms of poetry, composed of lines of seven, five, and seven syllables." Mr Schaeffer droned. "However the term haiku is relatively new. Prior to the modern age, poems were referred to as haikai, for a variety of different reasons…"

John doodled a star on his desk. He had already learned most of this at his old school during their poetry unit, and even the first time around the information was dull.

Bored, John craned his neck so that he could watch Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. He had been spying on the boy every day for the past week and a half. Originally it had just been a passing interest, but now enough time had past that John could no longer deny what was right in front of his face.

Something strange was going on.

Originally, John had assumed that Sherlock was a bit of loner, and avoided others out of choice. But now John could see that it was the other students who were avoiding _him_. Teachers often called for the class to break up into pairs, but no one ever worked with Sherlock, or asked him to join a group. The homeroom teacher never called his name during attendance, and on the days Sherlock didn't show up (which were often), he was never marked as absent.

Once John watched Jim Moriarty throw paper airplane that accidentally hit Sherlock right in the face. John was expecting some sort of apology, or at least a joke, but it was far worse than it. It was just…nothing.

Jim didn't apologize to Sherlock, or even acknowledge that he had hit him at all.

It was as if the plane had simply run into a brick wall.

Sally Donovan turned around to glare at him, her dark brown eyes narrowing into thin slits. _It's like she's angry at me for even looking at him. _

John wanted Sherlock to scream, to beat his fists against the desk and throw the mother of all tantrums until everyone acknowledged him, but he never did. He barely ever looked at the other children. It was like his isolation didn't bother him at all.

John clenched his fist tightly and made a promise to himself: there was something strange going on in Class three.

And he was going to figure out what.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxx

John sat on the bench and watched the class run laps around the track. Only two more weeks and his lung would be healed again. Then he could run again too.

"Can I sit with you?" asked a tiny red-haired girl. John looked down toe her ankle was wrapped tightly in an ace bandage. "I sprained my ankle yesterday."

"Of course," he said, moving over to make room for her.

She held out her hand. "I'm Molly."

"I'm John. John Watson. Uh…I guess you already knew that though."

She laughed. "Another reminder is always good. So how do you like class three?"

"Everyone seems nice enough," he said, shrugging his shoulders. "Can I ask you a question, though?"

Molly nodded emphatically. "Sure. I'm always happy to help."

"Oh, where's Sherlock?"

For a split second Molly's eyes widened, and she trembled like a leaf. And then a second later it was gone again. "Who?"

"Sherlock Holmes," John clarified. "He wears an eye patch on his right eye?"

"What?" Molly asked again.

_How many people at this school could possibly wear eye patches? _ John wondered frustratedly."I met him when I was at the hospital last month, and I didn't see him running laps on the track with the other boys."

Molly stared at him blankly.

Suddenly a bolt of lighting tore through the sky, illuminating a lean figure up on the roof. Well, if Molly wouldn't give him any answers, he would go straight to the man himself.

"Wait!" Molly shrieked as he ran toward the school.

"Sorry, Molly, I'll catch up with you later!" John called over his shoulder.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Moments later he burst out on to the roof and saw Sherlock staring at the school grounds below. A long black pea coat billowed behind him in the breeze.

"You're not from around here are you," Sherlock said without bothering to turn around.

John fought back the urge to laugh. "No, I'm not. I'm pretty sure I mentioned that when I introduced myself, though."

Sherlock continued, unperturbed. "You continuously fidgeted during class, scratching at your neck where the tie collar had brushed your skin. However, you did not play with the body of the tie, indicating that you were used to wearing a full uniform to school, but not used to the uniform's fabric. The only other type of fabric used for school uniforms in this country is silk. Therefore, you'd previously gone to a more upscale preparatory school where they had silk ties.

I also heard you mention to another student that you liked Presteigne because it was closer to nature, a statement that would only ever be uttered by a London Native. So: you go to a prep school in London where students wear silk ties. The only two options are West Ham and Saint Barts. Judging by your accent, I would say Saint Barts."

"That was amazing," John admitted quietly.

Sherlock whipped around. "You think so?"

"Of course it was. It was extraordinary. It was quite extraordinary."

Sherlock frowned, a deep furrow creasing his brow. "That's not what people normally say."

"What do people normally say?" John asked.

"Piss off."

John couldn't stop a high-pitched giggle from slipping out. He covered his mouth in embarrassment and looked up to see Sherlock smiling back at him.

"You shouldn't be speaking to me," Sherlock said with a hint of sadness creeping into his voice.

"Why shouldn't I? Sherlock, why aren't you in gym with everyone else? And why does it seem like people ignore you in class?"

Realization seemed to down on the boy as his mouth opened in a perfect o. "They haven't told you yet, have they?"

"Told me what?"

"Your classmates associate your name with a cruel, irrational death that occurred at this school. This school is a place that is close to death. Especially class three."

"Close to death?" John repeated. This was sounding like something out of a horror novel. But it did start to explain some of the weird behavior at this school…

Sherlock's green eye was staring him down like he was some delicious cut of meat. No; like he was some dead animal that he wanted to pin down and tear apart to see what made him tick. John could feel the hair on his arms stand up, giving him goose bumps.

"You really don't know anything, do you John," Sherlock said. A cold wind blew behind him, whipping his long coat about once again.

"Know what?" He felt like he was Alice in Wonderland, having stumbled into a new world that he barely even began to understand.

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders and looked at the ground looked at the ground. John suddenly shivered, much colder without the heat of the boy's gaze. "You'll find out soon enough. You shouldn't try to get close to me. You shouldn't talk to me anymore, either."'

"Why?" John argued.

"It all needs to play out. Goodbye, John," he called over his shoulder.

The roof door slammed shut before John even managed to say anything in return.

"Goodbye, Sherlock," he muttered.

_What the hell just happened? _


	3. Chapter 3

John quickly switched his fingers from the G to the C chord position and winced as the strings cut into his uncalloused hands. He was out of practice. His father had never approved of him playing the guitar, saying that it took time away from his studies. But since Presteigne required that every student play a musical instrument for band class, John was glad for once that he had disappointed the man.

He watched as Molly moved her slender fingers up and down the neck of the flute, adding trills and rifts to the standard piece. She was definitely good; with practice she could even prove quite talented.

Mrs. Brooks placed a hand on Molly's shoulder and scanned through the score. "I didn't see that anywhere in here," she teased.

Molly blushed. "Sorry, Mrs. Brooks. I didn't even realize I was doing it doing it."

"You play beautifully, Molly," the teacher praised, making Molly turn almost as red as her hair. "But from now on let's save that kind of thing for music club. We wouldn't want to make the other students jealous."

"Yes, Mrs. Brooks," Molly mumbled as the teacher moved toward Anderson, yelling to stop playing before he made a whole in the drum.

"I quite liked it," John whispered in her ear. He noticed Greg slouch a bit next to him, as if he wanted to be the one to say that to Molly first.

Molly brightened immediately. "Really?" she asked.

"Definitely," John said with a smile. " It spiced things up a bit."

Greg slouched even further. _ Maybe he likes her or something. _

"Maybe you should join music club with me, then!"

John considered it briefly. "Maybe. I'm definitely not as good as you or anything. I think I'm a lot better at listening to music than playing it…"

John trailed off as the wailing of a violin pierced the air. Turning, he saw Sherlock pluck the strings one by one to make sure the instrument was in tune. He gave a soft hum of approval and closed his eyes, looking more peaceful than John had ever seen him.

The piece began.

John's mouth dropped open in awe. Molly might be good, but Sherlock was _exquisite_. He played with utmost ease, as if the instrument were simply an extension of his body and manipulating it came as easily as breathing. John had never heard the piece before, but he was overwhelmed with a sense of loneliness. He looked around the room and saw that many of the students had stopped talking and sat with their eyes closed.

"Beautiful," Molly murmured next to him.

John looked at her archly. She definitely just acknowledged Sherlock playing.

The girl squeaked in fright, and jumped out of her seat. "I have to go to the bathroom!"

John tore after her into the hallway. "Molly, wait!" John yelled. The girl ignored him and walked faster. John ran to catch up and placed a hand on the girl's shoulder to spin her around. "Why do you lot act like Sherlock's not there?" he asked. "You hear him; I know you do."

Molly's eyes widened, and John knew she was about to crack.

Finally he would get some answers.

Suddenly, John was body checked into the wall.

"What the hell?" he screamed angrily. He turned around to see Greg standing there with a goofy grin on his face.

"Hey, you guys talking about Mrs. Brooks? She's pretty hot, huh? What a fantastic little arse!"

John tried to hide his blush. "I don't know. She's ok I guess."

Lestrade put an arm around John's shoulder in conspiracy. "You like her, don't you? It's alright if you do, I've been known to fancy an older woman myself."

"No, it's not like that," John assured him hurriedly. "She's, ummm, Hold on," John said, looking down the corridor. "Where'd Molly go?"

"She must have disappeared when we started talking about Mrs. Brooks. You know girls." The boy's grey eyes widened in alarm. "Wait, were you about to ask her out?"

John shook his head. "No. I was about to ask her about…" John trailed off. He knew in his gut that Greg wasn't going to tell him anything. "Don't worry about it," he finished lamely.

_Fuck. _

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"I like that song," Molly argued as they walked to class. "The minor chords give it a sense of uneasiness, like everything is shifting."

"And you _enjoy_ feeling that way?" Greg asked wryly.

John smiled. Ever since the day that he had cornered Molly, the three of them had been hanging out a lot together. Originally John had just been trying to get Molly alone again, but Lestrade's constant presence ensured she would never tell him anything. He had grown to enjoy their company, though. They were the closest thing he had to friends in this school.

"Where does that door lead to?" John asked Molly. He had never been in this part of the school.

"It's the auxiliary library," Molly said. "No one really goes in there though."

John opened the door to peer through. The room was adorned with stacks overflowing with books and tables for student reading. And at the table in the center of the room sat a certain student he had been dying to learn more about.

"I'll see you guys in class," John said.

"John, hold on a minute," Greg said forcefully.

"I gotta go," John cut him off. He shut the door.

"Hey," John said, walking over to Sherlock.

The boy raised an eyebrow. "Was it ok to do that?"

"Do what?"

Sherlock ignored his question. "They didn't try to stop you?"

"I guess not," John said hesitantly. He wasn't normally big on lying, but at the moment he didn't give a damn about want everyone else thought. "What are you reading?"

"Aren't you going to ask if I exist?" Sherlock asked cryptically.

John shrugged. "No one's going to give me a straight answer anyway."

He chuckled a little at that, a low, rich sound that reminded John of dark chocolate. "So," John said, motioning to the large tome in front of the boy. "A little light reading?"

Sherlock flipped to the front cover so that John could read the title. "The Science of Deduction," John read out loud. "Any good?"

He smiled that Cheshire cat grin of his. "It's proved most enlightening. I'll need to add some things, of course."

"Right…" John said unsurely. "What's wrong with your right eye? You've been wearing that eye patch ever since I saw you in the hospital."

Sherlock glowered at him, green eye alight something wild and feral. "You really want to know?"

John became acutely aware that he'd touched on a sore spot. "You don't have to answer," he said, waving his hands in the air.

"Then I won't," Sherlock said archly and immediately returned to his reading. An awkward moment of silence passed between the two boys. John wasn't positive, but he had a feeling Sherlock had just given him a test, and he didn't know yet whether he had passed or failed.

Sherlock looked up from the book suddenly, as if John's presence was surprise to him. "Any else, Mr. Watson?"

"You really don't like questions do you," John couldn't keep from blurting out.

"Usually I like to be the one asking them," Sherlock said, the barest hint of a smile forming on his face again.

"You should go back to class, dear," a voice called. An elderly woman stepped out from behind the shelves. She adjusted her glasses and gave him a kind look. "I don't think I've ever seen you here before."

"I'm John Watson," he said. "From ninth grade class three. I just transferred here."

"I'm Mrs. Hudson, the librarian. You're welcome to come here whenever you like, but you should get going now," She said, waving him along.

"Yes, Ma'am," he said, heading for the door.

He looked back once before leaving.

Sherlock hadn't even moved.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxx

John peered through the window of the hospital break room. Sarah was alone, sprawling across the ratty couch with a book on top of her face. John wrapped his knuckles softly on the glass.

"Jesus!" Sarah screamed as she fell off the couch. She rubbed her eyes and looked out the window. "John, is that you? God, you scared me half to death!"

"Sorry," John said sheepishly. "I didn't realize you were sleeping. I came to give you back the books you lent me."

Sarah quickly unlocked the door and let him inside. "Did you like them?" she asked, recovering her positive demeanor now that the last vestiges of sleep had worn off.

John nodded emphatically. "I never knew the body did such amazing things."

"I wish half of the people on this staff had as much natural curiosity as you," Sarah beamed. "I can give you some more of them if you want. But that's not all you came for tonight, is it."

"There's something else that I wanted to ask you," he admitted reluctantly. Sarah motioned for him to sit down with her at the table.

"Did a boy from the Holmes family ever die in this hospital, Sarah?"

"Holmes family…" she pondered. "I'm not sure. Why do you ask?"

John wasn't sure how much of the story he was supposed to tell her. "Something happened that made me wonder."

"I get the feeling that you're asking for a reason," Sarah said, smiling knowingly. "Well, I know for sure that no one with the surname Holmes ever died in my care."

John nodded, grateful for any sort of information. "Changing the subject then. On any of the days that you visited me, did you ever see a boy wearing a school uniform in the wards?"

Sarah grabbed a soda and popped off the top. "A boy again, huh?" she leered.

John rolled his eyes. "It's not like that. He had a dark blue blazer, curly hair, and an eyepatch over his right eye?"

"An ophthalmology patient, then. Hhmm… Hang on a second!"

John jerked forward in his seat. "You saw him?"

"No, but…a Holmes boy who died…there may have been one. It was in the beginning of my residency so I don't remember the case very well."

"What was his name?" John asked urgently.

"I don't remember." Sarah leaned forward to whisper in John's ear. "Want me to find out for you?"

"Could you?"

"Sure, I could ask around. If I find anything I'll give you a call."

John was immensely grateful. "Thanks so much for your help, Sarah."

"No problem mister future-doctor," Sarah said in a sing-song. "But I do expect you to tell me everything once you figure out the mystery."

John gave her a wink. "It's a date."


End file.
